“Buddy!” Ed watches the dog disappear into the woods. “Goddamn it! Buddy!” He’s going to have a heart attack right here and now. “Buddy! Come!” He tries to whistle, but his mouth is too dry. He claps and calls, shouting the dog’s name. He’s never not come before. Every time Ed has let him off the leash, in defiance of Alice’s overprotectiveness, the dog has come like a shot at his call. Now the only sound is the brush beneath the trees rustling as the dog moves away from him. Ed braces himself against his knees and fights a surge of panic. He’s been their dog for only a little while. What if he’s running away from them? “Buddy!”

Then the dog is back on the dam, trotting along the six-inch-wide coaming as unconcernedly as a high-wire walker on pavement. He sees Ed and picks up the pace.

“Easy, slow down.” Just as the dog reaches Ed, who is kneeling on the rain-slick cement of the abutment, his hind foot slips on a scattering of wet leaves and suddenly he is scrambling. Ed reaches out and grabs the dog by the ruff.

“Sweet Jesus, I thought I’d lost you.”

Chapter 42

42

I make it back to Adele’s house, only to find it empty. She’s probably at Paul’s. That makes sense. Why would she come back to this empty place, be here alone with me? There’s a newspaper on the front walk, and I pause for a moment after retrieving it to contemplate the triple-decker next door, the house that I once lived in. If Adele meant what she said about going into that retirement community, it could be sold fairly soon if she wants to convert it into liquid assets. Or maybe the rents will offset the expense of senior housing and she’ll hang on to it.

Lights are on in all three flats, diffused through drawn curtains or lowered blinds. Even in the murky half-light of dusk, the place looks in need of paint and a little TLC. It occurs to me that I lived in that house almost exactly as long as I lived in Adele’s—nine years. I haven’t been inside since the day we moved out, so I still picture the living room walls as mint green and cream, the shag rug a blend of olive and russet fibers. Hideous by today’s standards, but what I remember fondly.

A welcome thought rattles through me: I am free. With my father’s passing, I no longer have any connection to Adele Rose. As cut off as I have been, there has always been this lingering attachment I could never quite break free from. As long as my father was alive, there was communication, however sparse. Like being called here to attend him like some unpaid nurse. A Christmas card with a twenty-five-dollar check in it, signed by Adele. That will stop now.